To Shatter A Blood Stained Mirror
by Sassaphrass
Summary: It's amazing what a mirror can tell, or remind, a person. Especially when they don't want it to. Demon! Dean drabble.


**A/N: This is a little drabble about a mass-murdering Demon Dean's thoughts on himself and his past. That's pretty much it. I don't know if it's been done before, but if so then I guess I'll just have to do it again.**

 **Disclaimer: I own absolutely _nothin_ _g._**

 **Warnings: Language and a teensy bit of gore.**

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To Shatter A Blood Stained Mirror

The only thing not stained in scarlet was the pristine mirror hanging securely on the ruined wall. It was a full body mirror, trimmed with an elegant leaf-patterned frame, and not a single imperfection that marred its delicate details and unblemished glass. It even hung with perfect symmetry, not a single corner nor edge turned askew.

The mirror had no right being in a house of beautiful macabre.

Dean hated it.

The hunter of demons, a now ironic title, edged closer to the dreadfully perfect mirror. His boots squelched on the wet carpet, a once boring white color now brought to life by the red puddles dancing across it, and his soaked clothes tugged heavily against his skin as he moved forward.

Dean didn't know why, he shouldn't even care, but he was a bit glad of how the mirror was hung a bit higher to accommodate those blessed with height, such as himself. He didn't have to stoop or bend to see every bit of himself, just stand there and admire the unholy monster he had become.

The man leaned closer to the mirror, his face growing clearer with every inch he moved forward. He examined the details of his face with a keen eye, just out of curiosity, nothing else.

The freckles that dusted across his nose and cheeks were camouflaged behind scarlet splatters.

He remembered how Mom would always say they were adorable, but he would whine and complain about how stupid they were. He hated them! But Mom would laugh in her sweet voice before poking his nose and saying, "Oh, don't be like that, tiger! They're angels' kisses. That's why you have so many of them, because God loves you and sent all his angels to look after you." Then he would laugh and try to push her back as she smothered his face with little pecks. Maybe that's really why he had so many, with Mom now being an angel and all.

But apparently the bastards on the wrong side of the pearly white gates decided to take over the angels' job.

His coal eyes peered at his reflection, and for a minute - just a minute - he decided to flick them back to their original color. Our of curiosity, of course.

The glassy green eyes (he could have sworn they were brighter) blended perfectly with the red painting his features. The two colors reminded him a bit about Christmas. How he would see houses smothered with enough colors and lights to give the entire neighborhood a seizure. Parents would spend a shit load of money on decorations and presents that their kids would barely use, while said rugrats would sit around a glamorous, big ass, dead tree to wait for some jolly fat man to break into their house, give them gifts, stuff milk and cookies down his gullet, then hitch a ride on his flying reindeer outta there. It's pretty ridiculous, really.

But little Sammy would bounce around the place _begging_ for his big bro to deck the sleezy hotel they were staying at with Christmas decorations. Every single time he begged, Dean tried (Lord knows he tried) to deny the little squirt. But Sam would give him the biggest puppy eyes imaginable, knowing that was Dean's one true weakness, and Big 'ol Bro would just melt on the spot.

During the night when Sam would be snug as a bug in bed, Dean would find himself dragging a small tree, practically a twig, that he 'acquired' from the nearest tree farm. He'd deck it out in cheap air fresheners, colorful gum wrappers, paperclip chains, hell one year he even used silly string. Anything a store wouldn't notice going missing or the charity drive wouldn't care about, and you might find it in that cheep motel room.

And every single time Sammy's eyes would light up when he saw the bedazzled tree and colorful paper chains decorating the room. Dean would steal a few presents from the nearest house and give them to his brother, saying that Dad brought them during the night but sadly had to leave on another case. There's a lot of monsters around Christmas, you know.

Years later, after so many holidays passed that they couldn't give two fucks about, Dean found himself drinking spiked eggnog and watching Christmas specials as the two brothers laughed the night away. That was the first time in _years_ Dean actually loved Christmas, mostly his holidays were filled with salt guns and body trails. Of course, several months later he found himself becoming a chew toy then getting his ass dragged down under.

Forty years trapped in that God forsaken cesspool of a pit. Forty years of agonized screams, razors slicing skin, being ripped apart with hands digging in the flesh and fire burning away every last shred of your humanity. Thirty years on the rack, ten off. And those ten years?

God, he loved them!

They were pure, wonderful. Every soul he skinned screamed with a beautiful lament of agony. He'd smile as blood splattered against the walls and pooled on the floor. He'd smirk as the smell of burnt flesh mixed with the scent of copper wafted through the air and assaulted his senses. The burning flames of hell would lick their way across his skin, wringing out screams of agony before turning into maddening laughter. He would look into the wretched souls' eyes and see himself, his green eyes and freckles, and it would make him _t_ _hat_ much more willing to slowly tear them to shreds.

Dean's vision swam with an all new bloodlust as he remembered those glory days. He should have been a demon _years_ ago. But _no_ , he just _had_ to fight this beautiful power. Those years in hell slicing and dicing, wrapping his blood stained hands around their necks, carving away at their insides like a pumpkin, all of it was a gateway to something absolutely _wonderful_.

The _power!_ God, it felt so amazing! It surged through his body like ecstasy before turning into poison. It ate away at his humanity, leaving nothing but a violent-hungry glee behind. But he didn't give a damn about his humanity anymore, the high he got from this power was far too great to not be enjoyed. The price for his sanity was well worth it.

The demon licked the blood off his lips, the taste of cheep whiskey and fresh honeysuckle flooded his tongue. It certainly wasn't the best taste, but it was one that he personally found enjoyable. Cheep whiskey reminded him of the times he spent in bars, hustling assholes out of their paychecks, finding a pretty little woman to hook up with for a night, and getting himself so hammered that he would forget all about his worries. He certainly missed those good old days.

The sweetness that was so akin to honeysuckle brought forth memories of him and Sammy sneaking out of some rundown cabin in Louisiana while Dad slept off pain from a particularly pain-in-the-ass nest of vampires. Sam and Dean had found a nice little opening in the woods next to a bunch of honeysuckle bushes, their sweet sent swept through the cool night breeze (a thankful break from the burning humidity of the day). They looked at the sky for hours, sucking on honeysuckle nectar, and talking about anything and everything. Dean showed Sam what few constellations he remembered Mom telling him about, and Sammy would show his brother the ones that he learned in school.

Dean clenched his fist and grit his teeth, staring furiously into the mirror. How dare those memories flash through his mind! How dare Sam intrude on his new life once again! No, Dean was over that life. Those memories were from a time long dead and gone, no use going back to them. And there was no way in hell he would _ever_ want to go back to that shit he use to call a life.

And this mirror, how _dare_ it remind him of what he doesn't want! This mirror, with its pristine finish and flawless surface, how dare this perfect thing show him the flaws he doesn't want to see. So what if he has lips as sweet as honey that spout a liar's poison, so what if his green eyes are shattered glass, so what if his freckles look better covered in blood?

Dean's arm moved of its own accord, striking the unblemished mirror with an army of rage behind it. The mirror shattered, shattered into endless shards that fell to the floor with a resounding cacophony of sharp clatter. The little pieces scattered around his feet, every single one reflecting the bloodlust in his eyes and the tight line of his clenched jaw. All he saw in those little shards was a demon, a disgusting monster.

The hunter growled, he turned on his heel, cracking the glass even more as he stepped on it, and gazed at the bloodied room. Dismembered bodies were tossed around the room, slashes torn through them, and scarlet staining every visible surface. He couldn't remember if they were demons, vampires, ghouls, humans, hell he didn't give a damn anymore. He shouldn't, not now and not ever again.

He's not a monster, he's more powerful than he had ever been, nothing can change that. He's stronger, faster, he's a fucking king of the damned! He doesn't want to go back to being weak, pathetic, having everyone trample all over him. To hell with the family business, to hell with saving people, to hell with that damn angel Castiel, and to _hell_ with Sam!

Dean marched out of that house, wiping his bloody knife on his jeans, and not giving that shattered mirror and its blemished remains a second look.

All it did was tell nothing but _lies_.


End file.
